


When I Paint My Masterpiece

by Unchained_Daisychain



Series: oh my baby how i love your legs [3]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff and Smut, I didn't mean to write a thigh fic with this much plot, M/M, McBeardy, Model Paul, Paul is low-key becoming his sugar daddy for all things art, Porn With Plot, Sexual Tension, Thighs, art student john, happy birthday johnny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:20:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26916496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unchained_Daisychain/pseuds/Unchained_Daisychain
Summary: During a new area of study in John's art class, their instructor brings in a model named Paul to pose nude for their sketches. In no time at all, the older man has John suddenly arriving to class on time and showing greater interest in his work. And the flood of inspiration arrives just in time for the weekend of his art showcasing.-Thick-rimmed glasses high on his nose, he studies the threadlike arch of his eyebrows and scruffiness of his chubby cheeks. Line by line, he gives life to a black-and-white replica of the man posed in the middle of the room. Twice, their eyes meet over the beechwood frame of his easel and John has to ensure that the dip in his stomach didn’t find its way onto the paper as a glaring smudge.
Relationships: John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Series: oh my baby how i love your legs [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1613551
Comments: 16
Kudos: 71





	When I Paint My Masterpiece

**Author's Note:**

> A while back I got one or two requests about mcbeardy and john's thighs for this series, and for some time now I've also had the idea of Paul modeling for john's art class, so I just combined the two. it's much longer than I ever intended, but I hope y'all enjoy
> 
> happy 80th, Johnny ♡
> 
> and happy john's birthday to the rest of you ♡

John yanks his headphones out by the cord and slips through the door as clandestinely as possible. He tries to steady his uneven breathing from the sprint over, but at the sight of the empty dais in the center of the room, it escapes him entirely in one audible sigh of relief. Sweeping a hand through his messy quiff, he finds his easel. Never a difficult task when it is always the only one vacant. 

“Got lucky this time, Johnny,” Cyn says without looking up from her sketchbook when he plops on the adjacent stool. 

He roots through his messenger bag for his own supplies. “When Eppy comes in, just pretend I was here the whole time.”

Stuart scoffs and leans over their friend to meet his eyes. “I’m sure he’ll believe it. That fresh-out-of-bed look really sells it for ye.”

“I’ll sell you a kick in the arse,” he mutters.

With motherly reproval Cynthia reminds him, “He’s already warned you about your spot in the gallery.”

“And I still made it here before he did, didn’t I?”

She glances to the door and huffs a laugh. “Barely.”

Only a few minutes behind John, their instructor breezes into the room like a smartly dressed storm. And it becomes clear in an instant what could be to blame for the disruption in his consistent punctuality. Close at his heels is a tall, bearded man with a hand raking back the mane of hair that shares the same shade of coal-black as his turtleneck jumper. A scholarly air seems to eddy around him, which John might call pretentious were the pair of large hazel eyes not inhibiting his ability to speak at all. While Brian apologizes for his delay and deposits his belongings at his desk, he pays more attention to the handsome stranger silently ducking into their supply closet. His long, white-trousered legs disappear as stealthily as a spectre that he hardly caught sight of long enough.

With a class so late in the evening, visitors are a rare appearance. Once or twice, Brian has introduced another instructor to the course who was more proficient in a specific technique. But those wet blankets could have taken the excitement out of an earthquake just by showing up.

Blinking dazedly, John returns to the mindless doodle he had started. While he loses himself in the fantastical and cartoonish scene of a grotesquely deformed sailor and the doglike parrot atop his humped shoulder, Brian positions an armless white chair on the dais centered amongst their semicircle of easels. He then proceeds to inform them that this week marks their new concentration of study: life models.

The words hijack John’s attention instantly. And as though to punctuate them, the bearded man exits the supply closet in nothing more than a navy blue robe to join Brian on the dais for an official introduction. 

“Everyone, this is Paul, our model for today.”

With a charming smile and rich timbre, he greets, “Hullo.”

“Since we’re already a bit behind, let’s just jump right into it, shall we?” Clapping his hands together, Brian addresses the model, “Paul, whenever you’re ready….”

He nods and unties the robe before passing it off to Brian. Obliquely, he sits in the chair with one arm resting along the back and the other against his thigh, spread in a manner so leisurely it brakes John’s train of thought on where exactly to begin his sketch. Given such an impressive landscape to chart, his pencil hovers over the pad in indecision.

“Droolin’ onto your easel there, mate,” Stuart mutters with amusement in his tone.

John shuffles in his seat. “Shurrup, Stu.”

With no clear direction in mind—just the urge to etch  _ some _ kind of mark—John touches the lead to the book. After some time, a rough outline of the posture of Paul’s head, body, and limbs begins to take shape. His bespectacled eyes dart studiously between the face of his easel and bare chest of his model.

“Think about your proportions, people,” Brian comments amidst his observant stroll between their sturdy easels and scribbling hands. “Make sure everything is to scale.”

_ “Everything, _ sir?” John asks flippantly, his brazenness returning now that the art has tranquilized him enough with a lead-tipped needle.

“Very funny, John. I hope your lines are cleaner than your mind.” 

Glancing over at his work, Cyn quirks an eyebrow. “They’re both pretty horrid.”

He threatens her with a pencil hovered precariously close to her meticulous outline, until she shoves him away like a wayward child. He notices the smile on their model’s lips and considers racing ten steps ahead of himself just to commit it to the page.

“It’s cold in ‘ere,” Paul quietly adds, “so be generous with those proportions.”

The allusion to his manhood is not quite subtle enough to deter John’s eyes from wandering directly to it. The provocative spread of his legs exudes self-confidence and offers a perfect display of what he is working with. Not that he would have necessarily preferred a minging model, but at least he would be able to fucking concentrate.

With his outline complete, John returns to the top of his page to embellish the vague shape of Paul’s face with more detail. Thick-rimmed glasses high on his nose, he studies the threadlike arch of his eyebrows and scruffiness of his chubby cheeks. Line by line, he gives life to a black-and-white replica of the man posed in the middle of the room. Twice, their eyes meet over the beechwood frame of his easel and John has to ensure that the dip in his stomach didn’t find its way onto the paper as a glaring smudge.

To complement the rhythm of scratching lead, Brian eventually turns on a speaker that croons the dulcet jazz of John Coltrane. Since the beginning he has always created a laidback workspace where art is less of an outcome and more of a tangible entity alive in every corner of the room. 

While resting his eyes and wrist, John looks to his left at Stuart’s progress. A master at any artistic endeavor, Stu hunches over his notebook with enough determination that the page may absorb him like a drop of ink any second. And his sketch could not be any cleaner if his mate had squeezed between the lines and personally rearranged them with his own two hands. A deflated balloon, any satisfaction with his own efforts hisses away with one look at Sutcliffe’s prodigious talent. When he can’t decide whether he wants to fuck their actual model or someone’s two-dimensional interpretation of him, John knows he can’t compete.

With a quiet sigh he returns his focus to Paul and notices the absentminded tapping of his foot in time to the pattering drumbeat. Eyes and pencil alike work their way down his body as he accentuates highlights on his chest from the dusk sifting through the curtains and shades in shadows around the musculature of bent legs. He loses himself so effortlessly in the exploration that by the time Brian concludes their class, he blinks in bemusement at where their time has gone. 

Reading the time on his wristwatch, he dismisses them with, “We’ll continue tomorrow, perhaps with a different pose. Lovely work today, everyone.”

Even as his classmates eagerly pack up, John keeps his pencil in a grip as unyielding as his competitiveness to perfect certain attributes of the model. Last to arrive and last to leave, he hastily scrawls his adjustments between stolen glances at the flashes of flesh steadily concealed by the navy blue robe Paul slips back on. 

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you work so hard on a piece,” Stuart teases, looming over his shoulder along with Cyn, the smirks on their faces so permanent they seem drawn on.

“Curiously motivated today, isn’t he?”

John shakes his head, but his eyes trace the long vee of the cotton that leads to a loosely tied knot around Paul’s waist. Distractedly, he mutters, “I’m makin’ up for all that saggin’ off is all.”

“You’ll need five more portraits of the bloke if that’s yer aim,” Stu says.

If that were the debt owed for his many late arrivals, John would be more than happy to pay. His friends leave him to his work, but he scarcely makes another mark on the page before a hand is gripping the top post of his easel.

“John, close up for me tonight, will you please?” Brian asks. “It’s my turn to pick up the boys from football.”

Finally looking up from his sketch after what feels like hours, he nods. “Yeah, sure.”

“I appreciate it.” He drops the keys into his palm and adds, “Oh, and it was nice seeing you in class before me for a change.”

He grins, toothy and cheeky. “The queue at the chippy was too long, so don’t get used to it.”

While the last of his peers file out of the room, John transfers his belongings to Brian’s desk for more ample working space. Music still drifting around him, he loses himself so thoroughly in the art that he begins to wonder whether the process or the muse has taken hold of him. 

“Satisfied with your work?”

John snaps his head up to see Paul leaving the supply closet, fully clothed in his turtleneck and white trousers once again. He thought the man had left by now, but his presence is more imposing than ever in this empty room. 

With a shrug of his shoulders, he answers, “Could’ve been better.”

“I feel like I should be offended,” he laughs.

“No, I had a perfect model. It was just me.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Paul says and flashes that same arresting smile John had wanted to capture on the page. “Let’s see it.”

Then he approaches the desk, John’s heart rabbiting with every step, and sits on the corner of it in near imitation of his pose on the dais. The hints of his cologne mingling with the astringent odor of paints are so dizzying that John is too dumbstruck to stop him when he reaches for his sketchbook. With little choice but to settle back in his chair—pinned there by the weight of his insecurity—he awaits appraisal from his very model. A well-used eraser fumbles between his fingers while he watches the expressions shifting across Paul’s face like the slides in a projector.

At last, he meets John’s gaze and enthuses, “Bloody hell, this is good, man!”

“The lips were a bit of a challenge.” Compelled by his words, his eyes lower to them, plump and pink against the ivory of his complexion. “Couldn’t see ‘em so well.”

“Well, feel free to make any last minute adjustments,” Paul offers casually. “I’m not in a rush tonight.”

John blinks, thrown by the invitation. “Are you sure?”

“Definitely, you should never settle when it comes to your art.”

He ignores the nervous quills in his gut from those expressive eyes and pivots the leather chair to fully face his model. Despite his professionalism feeling more frail than the wood of his pencil, John carefully studies the Cupid’s bow of his mouth. Strangely, he feels more exposed than Paul, his entire technique on show as though its clothes have been stripped away. There had been safety behind an easel. Trying to restore some semblance of it with his words, he asks, “So how do you know Eppy?”

“We’ve been good friends for a couple years,” Paul answers. “I teach his kids piano and he helps out at my music shop on the weekends.”

John always wonders what that means…good friends. He puffs the fine particles of lead from the page and they scatter like his thoughts. “Do you model often?”

“This is my first time actually.”

“Really?” John says, pencil stilled in genuine surprise. “I wouldn’t’ve guessed.”

Roughly in his early to mid-thirties, he would have assumed he had more training than that; a handsome face like his is more fitting for a magazine cover than university art class. But with several eyes judging every hair and freckle on his body, the man couldn’t have seemed any more composed for his first time. 

The jauntiness even leaches into his tone when he answers, “Yeah, this was just a favor for a mate.”

“Mine are lucky if I remember their birthdays. It’d take a lot of convincin’ from ‘em for me to drop my trousers in a room of art students.”

“It helps if you picture everyone else naked, as well,” he quips, the shape of his words hypnotic. “But what can I say, I respect the craft.”

“The craft respects you, too,” John says and slides him the finished sketch. “Thanks for stickin’ ‘round for this.”

“Yeah, of course.” He thumbs up the corner of the previous page then politely asks, “May I?”

The thought of Paul skimming through more of his crude sketches knots John’s stomach in two. More unbearable yet is the thought of denying his apparent interest, and he finds himself leaning into that stronger pull in his gut. “Go for it.”

When met with the lame and portly pirate on the next immediate page, Paul’s laugh seems to echo off the tin paint cans stacked around the room. John inches his chair closer with a fond smile of his own, beginning to consider that maybe it isn’t half-bad after all.

“Who’s this poor bastard?”

One of many cast members in the theater of his imagination, the seafarer hadn’t yet earned the customary backstory most of them receive. “Lame John Silver, I reckon,” he says, quick-wittedly.

“Ah, of course,” he chuckles. “An’ a leg for a cane is a pretty clever way to go.”

“Brian says these are ‘a diversion from greater untapped potential,’” John parrots like a rewound cassette tape. The wry curl of his lip fashions into an insolent smirk when he adds, “So naturally I draw ‘em the most.”

“Sometimes he can be a stick in the mud, him.” He flips through more pages of zany characters wedged between the conventionally accepted projects Brian assigns them. “But you’ve really got some talent, y’know. Should I be gettin’ your autograph?”

“Haven’t quite painted my masterpiece yet.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re on your way. It’s the little moments that make a masterpiece.”

He winks, a diamantine sparkle in his eyes, and returns John his notebook.

“I had a feeling there was some wisdom hid in that beard.”

He laughs. “I was saving it for later.”

Unexpectedly, Paul sticks around while John packs away his materials and kills all of the lights in the room. Idle conversation follows them out the door when he locks up for the night. At first sight of him, John wouldn’t have assumed such a man would find amusement and creativity in his offbeat art style. But Paul’s intrigue in this side of him that very few comprehend has him volunteering more of his vulnerability. In the coterie of hipster art students, a conversation with genuine depth is such a rarity that John hates to see theirs come to an end. Beyond the stone steps outside the building, they part ways and he limits himself to three glances over the shoulder at Paul’s diminishing silhouette. 

* * *

The next evening, John can already hear the amusement in Stuart’s voice long before he says, “Figures that a hot model was all it took to get you to show up on time.”

“Or maybe I had to be since Eppy gave me the keys yesterday.” 

Wisely he withholds the detail of him loitering outside of the room for several minutes because he forgot the keys were even in his bag. The want to arrive early in hopes of stealing a few minutes of conversation with Paul before class had superseded any rationality. 

Noisily leafing through her sketchbook, Cynthia begins, “Speaking of yesterday, did anyone else have trouble on his dick?”

A smirk threaded on his lips, he can’t resist quipping, “I tried to, but he wouldn’t let me sit on it.”

“I meant drawin’ it, you tit,” she says with a smack to his arm. “You’re not doing a good job of sellin’ your case about the keys now.”

“Lads know how to graffiti dicks everywhere before they even learn how to write their names,” Stuart explains. “It’s in our nature.” 

“Well, isn’t it convenient that you’ve already seen his, Johnny? At least you’ll know what to expect.”

John narrows his eyes at her. “Don’t you have a cock to be fixin’ or somethin’?”

As ahead of schedule as himself, Paul enters the studio smiling amid conversation with Brian. With Cyn’s last comment a fresh stain in his mind, he feels his cheeks heat when their eyes first catch. Christ, he has never been so reticent about his sexual exploits before. Then again, he has also never gone for an older, more experienced man before either—someone with a mortgage and credit score and all of those soul-sucking adult responsibilities he tries to blot out with his paintbrush.

_ If that was the mouth responsible, I wouldn’t mind some soul-sucking. _

Once Paul disappears into the storage closet, his pale green shirt paired with a casual black waistcoat and beige trousers are discarded, and John doesn’t think he will ever become accustomed to the man reemerging stark naked. This time he stands rather than sits—half-turned in a way that exposes more of his rear than front—and Brian equips him with a diaphanous drape of maroon that hangs loosely over his shoulders and winds like a bleeding serpent around his forearms. The rich color juxtaposes the creaminess of his skin and captivates his attention like a solar flare. Burning eyes find relief in the grayscale simplicity of his sketch. All the while, John’s thoughts meander to his remarks on little moments and masterpieces.

The words begin to hold weight the more John’s eyes rove over the very testaments to them hidden in Paul’s body. The firm roundness of his backside, the tone of his legs, the line of his jaw as soft as any shadow cast by the drape—every feature amalgamates into one stunning work of art. Biting his lip in concentration, John contemplates nipping the skin enough to draw a few drops of blood to smear onto the outlined drape for a more personal touch. 

No one has ever inspired him to imbue a sketch with such life.

At the close of their session, John packs his bag with deliberation and his eyes on Paul walking barefoot across the room in his billowing robe. Intercepting his line of sight, Stuart steps in front of his easel and asks, “Are you still comin’ to the pub?”

John blinks at him dumbly, until remembrance strikes like a mallet.

With his thoughts as scattered as windswept leaves in the past 24 hours, he entirely forgot about the music trivia night at Coda. But perhaps his sudden amnesia is the greatest determinant of why he  _ should _ go. He can throw back enough drinks to clear his mind of his latest infatuation, maybe even find a distraction that could get it out of his system. 

“Yeah, of course,” he answers convincingly enough that his mate doesn’t bat an eye. “I could use the extra dosh.”

“Yeah, I’ve still got some supplies to get before the gallery this weekend.”

If he didn’t already have reason enough to drink, now he could sink enough to preemptively quell his nerves for Saturday. While the pristinely white walls and pedestals will serve as a grand showcasing for his peers' artwork, it will seem little more than a guillotine for his own. Sure, he could pull his act together within a week and show up to class on time, but will his art speak loudly enough that Brian could have saved his breath all this time?

Upon leaving the studio with Stuart, John’s hand hesitates on the doorknob…but he thinks better of allowing himself those glances back at Paul. 

Like a musical time machine, “December, 1963” wails over the muffled hum of conversations and around the wooden pillars of the rustic interior. The classic hits and modern atmosphere transform the entire pub into some hinterland of decades. The table their mates have reserved near the small stage is easy enough to spot, and John and Stu squeeze through the crowd towards them.

Over frothy pints and good music, they chat while waiting for the competition to begin. In the middle of Klaus detailing the incompetence of a fellow classmate, John discerns a presence at the edge of their table. A voice all too familiar accompanies it: “Fancy seein’ you lot here.”

The last person he would expect to see here, Paul smiles crookedly at the trio of art students he recognizes. He seems to be a few pints ahead of them, as well, and John can only blink in bemusement.

“Paul!” Cynthia enthuses brightly. “Are you here for the trivia?” 

“Yeah, me mate George rounded up a bunch of us to cover all his bases,” he says and points to the adjacent table filled with a boisterous group of men. 

“Smart bloke,” John chimes in. “We don’t play nice.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” His eyes roam over their group and lastly land on John, winking as he leaves them with, “Good luck to you then.”

With a £500 prize on the table, John takes the competition more seriously than he normally would. Split between the six of them, the reward won’t be prolific but it will be the easiest money he has ever earned, and a skint student can’t complain.

When the emcee bounds upon the stage with vigor, white boards are passed around to the participating tables. Another large board with team numbers and an empty scoreboard stands beside the man on stage as though he were an auctioneer. Speaking just as quickly, he explains the rules. 

A stack of question cards at the ready in his hands, he rattles off the first one: “What US festival hosted over 350,000 music fans in 1969?”

John snorts at the simplicity. 

He learns that the next sets of questions are much the same, yet gradually increasing in difficulty. Throughout the rounds he consistently checks Paul’s board to see how they match them point for point. The additional congruence of their childlike spirits proves itself with hand-drawn middle fingers or other inane doodles they flash at each other in the interim between questions.

Even if his intentions had been to escape his moony daze, his fatalistic heart accepts this chance meeting. Consider it the artist in him, but sometimes life seems so sketched out for him in that way. 

Watching their opponents convene furtively with one another, John recalls the rhythmic tapping of Paul’s bare foot on paint-stained tiles. In hindsight, it seems like a massive hint. He is a music lover much like himself. John stares at the index finger wedged between his teeth as though it were feeding him answers. So expressive when steeped in thought, hands gesturing to his mates like signal flares, it’s no wonder Brian chose him as a model for their class. During a music trivia competition, he never expected to learn more about his rival than the subject itself. 

Roughly nudging his shoulder, Astrid gripes, “C’mon, it’s the last one, John. Pay attention.”

At that realization his competitive nature suddenly grips him even tighter. Scooting from their table, he confidently approaches Paul’s, to which one of his blue-eyed friends teases, “We’ve got a spy in the camp, lads!” and frantically covers their blank whiteboard. 

Hands planted firmly on the tabletop like a business shark, John fixes his eyes on Paul and bets him, “Losers buy the winners a round.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, already rising to the challenge, and he thrusts out a hand. “Deal.”

After shaking it with a smile of his own, John returns to his team with an ineffable pull in his stomach. He ignores the knowing looks from his mates in favor of devoting all of his concentration on the final question.

“Which American singer-songwriter wrote and first recorded the song ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ in 1955?”

The relief in his chest seems to leak from the tip of his marker as he hastily scribbles the answer. When the time comes for them to reveal their answers, John reads “Elvis Presley” on the board Paul assuredly holds aloft, along with a doodle of the rocker himself. He chuckles to himself at the endearing, if not misplaced, pride while the announcers reveals, “Ooh, I’m sorry but the answer is Carl Perkins.”

Pockets already feeling heavy with prize money, their group embraces one another in raucous celebration and pats John on the back for his game-winning answer. Even at the table of his competitors, Paul bows his hands at him in a display of good sportsmanship. 

A short while later, John collects his share of the prize at the counter. The victory is still simmering in his blood when a congratulatory pint is placed in front of him. “I believe I owe you this,” Paul says with an elbow leaned comfortably on the countertop. 

“Cheers,” he laughs around the lip as he takes a drink.

With Paul’s eyes on him so weightily, their color restless in the muted lighting, it’s impossible not to feel naked in his clothes. “An artist, a music expert…you’re on yer way to a triple threat.”

“If you count being able to fit five Oreos in my mouth at once, then I’m already there.”

“Regular or Double Stuf?”

“Double Stuf,” John scoffs, appalled that he would even seem like a Regular Stuf bloke. “Do with that information what you will.”

Impressed, Paul lifts his eyebrows and grins. “You continue to amaze me.”

“But hey, you lot played a good game yourselves.”

“What if I told you we gave you that last one,” he says. “Didn’t have it in us to rob a bunch of poor students, y’know.”

John leans in, persuaded by the  _ lub-dub _ of his heart, and narrows his eyes. “I wouldn’t buy it. You should’ve seen how sure you looked when you held up that board.”

“An’ me mates won’t let me live it down anytime soon, I can assure you.” He shakes his head, rummages a hand through his hair. “So how do you plan to spend yer dosh?”

Shrugging, he considers, “I might blow it on some records or put it towards a new guitar.”

“Well, pop into the shop anytime you like. I’ll take care of you.”

Tone heavy with suggestion, he asks, “Will you?”

Paul holds his gaze unflinchingly. “Anything you need.”

The subtle drop in his voice is enough to tug John’s stomach down with it. And the surprise of his next offer is enough to keep in a perpetual free-fall. “Actually, it’s not too far of a walk if you wanna check it out.” 

“A private tour, eh?” John wets his lips like the idea is sweet enough to taste. “I’d love to.”

At the top of the pub’s Eighties Music Hour, they sneak away with the chimes of “Pictures of You” shivering down his spine like the autumn zephyr that greets them outside. A certain thrill comes with ditching the pub and their mates on a whim. It feels like a continuation from the previous night that felt cut too short.

They approach a shop advertising Merseyside Music in black, italicized typography across one window; behind the other, polished instruments shimmer like glassed-in stars. For John, entering a music shop has always been akin to that same familiar warmth of picking up a paintbrush or stepping foot on the doormat at home. He feels like he belongs. 

Inside, the fluorescent lights buzz to life with a harsh white that lends no clarity to blurred vision. Along with the celestial ones in the window, even more guitars and basses and brass horns adorn the paneled walls. Shelves of albums run through the middle of the shop like an audience waiting to be struck by the electricity. 

“Go on then,” Paul gently encourages from behind the counter, “have a look around.”

Forearms leaned against the wooden countertop, he blends so naturally with the backdrop of music behind him. Everytime John looks at him now, he sees a work of art that isn’t modeling so much as existing. Suddenly his artistic eye, impaired by alcohol though it may be, visualizes a creation in the making.

“Where d’ye keep the shittiest ones? Like, scratched, bent—all that good stuff.”

“That’s not something I hear often,” Paul chuckles. “But we’ve got a crate there at the back with a buyers beware warning.”

He smiles. “Perfect.”

The damaged LPs consist mostly of antiquated genres that have been cast aside by every succeeding generation’s hands. While he flips through a row of them, The Cure crackles softly over the speakers as though picking up where they left off in the pub. But the atmosphere has taken such a comfortable shift that he doesn’t miss it all that much.

Coming over to add even more used records into the crate, Paul questions, “What do you want with these?”

“I thought they’d make alright frisbees instead of sittin’ ‘ere collectin’ dust,” John mutters as his finger inspects the jagged edge of a deep scratch.

He nods with a smile. “Fair enough.”

“Nah,” he amends, “just a little project I’ve got in mind.”

“Have you always wanted to be an artist?”

“I wanted to be somebody important first. Then I realized, well…what’s the difference between that and an artist, y’know?” He stares down at the tea-stained album cover in his hands, someone’s creation left to rot here like fruit. “But everyone tells me not to make a career out of a hobby.”

Paul spreads his arms and encapsulates the essence of his shop in their span. “S’exactly what I did and it turned out alright.”

“So nobody shot you down?”

“Oh sure, I was just too stubborn to listen.”

If John couldn’t fall for him even more, he marries optimism with cynicism in a way that is vital to the life of a dreamer. 

By the end of his shopping spree, he carries to the counter four battered records from the 40s, a glass slide, and a handful of picks that seem to constantly disappear in his flat like socks in the wash. The residual funds will go towards the cherry red Gibson hanging on the wall, which currently can only make his wallet weep.

While Paul rings up his purchases, John hops onto the countertop. It’s captivating to watch him maneuver around the space like water in a pool. Mouthing the lyrics to the glittering 80s tunes and handling every album with a sensitivity it hasn’t known in years—music seemed to grace every aspect of his existence.

“It’s interesting to see you in your own element for a change,” John remarks quietly.

“You mean fully clothed?” he teases. 

“Can’t say I’ve ever had any objections to that. But I meant, in your own shop—your own territory, y’know?”

Paul cocks an eyebrow, eyeing him sidelong. “You don’t seem so out of place here yourself.”

“I’m a chameleon in that way.” When John notices him omitting the used albums from his total, he objects, “What about the records?”

“Take ‘em,” Paul says with a wave of his hand. “Not gonna make you pay for somethin’ you can’t even use.”

“Won’t say no to that,” John mutters, fishing his wallet from his pocket to purchase the rest.

“If yer interested in a side project, I’d love to have some of your work liven up the place. The shop is still fairly new and could use some distinction, y’know. 

With a faint curl of his lip, he glances down his nose at him. “If you wanna see more of me, Paul, all you have to do is ask.”

“Yer gonna get me in trouble, you are,” he tells him softly, but doesn’t sound quite like he would mind it.

In love with the chaos of his own touch, John crooks one foot around his hip. “How’s that?” 

He draws him closer towards the splay of his legs, until he can loosely wrap both of them around Paul’s lower back. Their gazes hold staunchly, even as his body yields to John’s insistence like he’s another friend in need of a favor. 

“Bein’ one of Brian’s students,” Paul says, hands left with little choice but to settle on his thighs. “I don’t think he’d approve.”

“It’s none of his business, is it?” he argues flippantly. The flex of his angle rides his boot over the curve of Paul’s arse. “But maybe you’d feel more comfortable if you pictured me naked.”

He snorts quietly, shaking his head. “I think it’d only make things worse, that.”

Paul spreads his legs wider like the boughs of a tree and John watches with an egg-sized lump in his throat as his hands slowly run higher up his thighs. He leans down, hand sliding along the smooth varnish and bunching to a fist with every inch. The ache to wrench his hands into Paul’s hair—to feel the friction of his beard on his soft face—is a bodily one. 

Beer, bourbon, and a bite of something defiant has his blood coursing hotter than usual. A sigh parts his lips from the firm grope to his dick over his jeans. Just when he moves his hand to bury it into Paul’s hair, his stack of records tumble to the floor. 

Escaping the barricade of his limbs, Paul squats down to pick them up. Head spinning like a wind vane, John hops down to help and mutters, “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m a little pissed.”

“Yeah…I think we both are.” 

He isn’t sure if it’s the implication of Paul’s words or the fact he doesn’t meet his eyes when he says them that makes his blood chill. 

* * *

The next evening John strolls into class uncertain of whether he wants to see Paul so soon after the previous night or not. In the end it doesn’t matter, though, because a young girl takes his place instead.

Before Brian even has the opportunity to introduce her, John interjects, “Where’s Paul?”

The blatant concern draws several pairs of eyes upon him at once.

“He phoned in ill today,” the instructor answers, then smoothly transitions back into his explanation of their task.

Flooded with disappointment, John worries the inside of his lip. Blankly, he stares at his sketchbook while the sound of asynchronous scribbling distantly fills his ears. Is it genuinely a prolonged hangover that Paul is nursing or regret from the line they nearly crossed? Once the moment had passed between them, they still joked with one another easily. But something still hung in the air between them like a dense fog. John had been ready to immerse himself in it entirely while Paul seemed afraid of getting lost.

Presently, the new model on the dais fails to hold his attention long enough to leave even a mark on the page. In an exercise of obstinacy he fills his sketch paper with another senseless doodle that their instructor detests. A featureless lass recumbent on her side, with dainty legs and an arse so wide it weighted her to the page. His efforts prove fruitful when Brian remarks in passing, “Not your best work, John.”

“Not your best model,  _ sir,” _ he bites back insolently. 

His admonishments end at a disappointed sigh. Epstein has always been the most patient of his professors, which often warrants a person  _ more _ antagonism in John’s book. After their dismissal, he is sure he has yet to hear the end of it when he requests of him, “John, a word, please?”

With years of classroom deviance on his record, his march to the instructor’s desk is as casual as an afternoon promenade. “Which one would you fancy? I know a lot of them.”

Unamused, Brian rolls his chair forward and joins his hands in a triangle on the desktop. In earnest, he begins, “I’ve had my suspicions about your sudden interest in my class.” John schools his features, reluctant to show even the minutest trace of worry Paul had voiced the night before. “But we all have our muses, and despite your performance today…I’m looking forward to seeing your work in the gallery tomorrow night.”

His entire body nearly sags with relief, uplifted only by the grin beaming on his face. “I’ll be sure to add today’s piece to the display just for you,” he enthuses with a hand thrusted out in gratitude.

Despite the wrinkling of his nose, Brian shakes it. “I’m honored.”

“I’m gonna borrow the room a bit longer, yeah? I’ve got some things to finish before tomorrow.”

With a tap to the desktop, he rises from his chair and insists, “Stay as long as you’d like.”

And so the next hour elapses in blissful solitude, with his earbuds jammed in and his nose nearly a needle to the grooves of albums he meticulously paints. The cool colors remind him of the incipience of his artistic pursuits. Early spring mornings were spent beneath the kitchen table, where he would paint on newspapers and paper plates and any other material typically stuffed in the bin. Across the kitchen tiles his mum would pad barefoot and laugh goldenly every time he impishly swiped her ankle with the tip of his brush. 

In those days, no acclaimed gallery could ever truly compare to a proud mother’s refrigerator.

A sudden tap on his shoulder jolts John from the daydream. Jerking his headphones out, he turns his head to see Paul standing behind him, amused as all hell at his fright. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Paul,” he breathes, then bats his stomach for nearly giving him a heart attack. After cancelling on them tonight, he hadn’t expected to see him at all. “What are you doin’ here?”

“I was hopin’ to catch Brian before he left, but…well, never mind it.” He cranes his neck to glimpse at the table strewn with brushes and paint. “What’re you up to in here?”

“Er—you can’t look yet, it’s not ready,” John says and bodily shields his work-in-progress before he sees too much, which of course only further piques the man’s curiosity. 

“Ah, c’mon, gi’ us a peek.”

He teases John with curious glances, until he staves him off with a hand to his chest and threat of, “Aye, I’ll give you somethin’ alright.”

“Whatever it is, you’ve made a right mess of yourself.” 

The smile fades from John’s lips in an instant when Paul’s hand cups his face and gently thumbs over the apple of his cheek several times before withdrawing a blue-stained fingertip. The warmth of his touch rushes across his face, cold from the studio and dampness outside. 

“I missed you today,” John blurts unthinkingly. “Like…havin’ you as our model, I mean.”

Paul’s lips twist apologetically as he wipes his own hands clean. “Sorry to sag off on you, but a night out at 32 isn’t the same as it was at 22.”

“Some other lass stood in for you.”

Noticing John’s sketchbook on the table, he asks, “Is she in here?”

John flips to the page of his latest doodle and hands it over so he can see for himself. 

“John,” Paul lightly chides, shaking his head and laughing at the gross exaggeration.

“Well…,” he shrugs lackadaisically, “she wasn’t you.”

His eyes flicker to his with the perennial smile on his lips a bookmark that falls to the page before he closes it. When he returns it to him, John pulls from behind the front cover one of the flyers he and Stuart designed for their art show.

“Listen, I’ve got a thing tomorrow night at eight,” he says. “I hope I’ll see you there.” 

Paul takes the flyer into his hands, smearing its white borders with blue.

His poor selling of the venue would drive any sane person away immediately. But perhaps a muse is more intimate with insanity than most. 

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

* * *

These places were always teeming with the Mr. Joneses of the world, whose noses were so high in the air it was a wonder they could even see the art. John watches with disdain as one of those pseudo-intellectuals scrutinizes one of his pieces. With Paul’s encouragement, he had risked showcasing one of his more unconventional styles. By no accident, he had chosen the very one he mindlessly sketched the day he met the model and which later got a laugh from him. Naturally, it has garnered the most attention from viewers. 

And for every second this latest one blankly stares at it, John’s teeth grind in his skull.

At the end of his tether, he finally snaps, “If you don’t plan on buyin’ it, maybe don’t breathe all over it.”

The man rears back enough to afford it more than enough space. Brow furrowed, he hastily moves to another student as though the place were a firing range rather than an art gallery. 

“Bloody twat,” John mutters to himself. 

Visiting from his own nearby section, Stuart jokes, “Well, if that’s yer attitude I’ll take my money elsewhere.”

“You an’ the rest of ‘em. I could shit on a canvas and they’d call it modern art here.”

“But there’s no integrity in a pile of shit.” He turns his attention to John’s displays, his first time seeing it all together. In that moment the difference between baffled silence and awed silence becomes strikingly clear. “Has Paul seen this yet?”

“Not yet.”

“He’ll be mad about it, mate. Seriously.”

All night John has been anxious to see Paul’s reaction to his largest piece in the collection. Everything else surrounding it is merely a stepping stone that led him to the fierce inspiration in Paul’s shop. Combining their worlds only seemed natural, and it will be his opinion that means the most.

Before John can respond to his mate, Stuart claps him on the shoulder and hurries off at the sight of more spectators crowding around his own display.

He waits patiently for Paul to arrive, but the minutes pass with still no show from the one man whose body and face inspired much of his work. With most of the buyers gone, the gallery is desolate and on the verge of closing for the night. 

Consequently, it makes it easy to hear the echo of running feet against the sterile white walls right when John begins to take down his work for the night.

Rounding the corner in a mess of billowing hair and searching eyes, Paul beams with relief when he sees him still there. Jogging to meet him, he pants, “Hey, sorry I’m late.”

“That’s alright,” John says, happy to see him at all. “I’d be a hypocrite to hold it against you.”

“You weren’t leaving, were you?” he asks, frowning when he notices the framed drawing in his hand.

“Almost, yeah. They’ll be closing in about ten minutes.”

All at once, his labored breathing stops. 

“Fuckin’ hell, John,” Paul whispers, deaf to his words because his eyes have glued themselves to the prized piece mounted in the center of his display. The holes of the used records which once called his shop home now stare back at him like a twin pair of eyes. Where defects once marred their acetate surface, a painted portrait of Paul’s face against a coat of pastel blue now covers them. Split by the music in fourfold symmetry. He shakes his head, seemingly marveling at the fact his painted counterpart does not mimic the motion. Finally, he turns to John with the greatest review he has heard all night. “I think you’ve painted your masterpiece.”

“Couldn’t’ve done it without you,” he says, as humbly as he can over the hammering in his chest.

Refusing to believe it for a second, Paul tells him, “Of course you could,” with a twinkle in his eye that convinces John,  _ Maybe I could. _

Looking back at the piece, he squints at the small metal slab advertising its price. “Only £50?!” he reads confoundedly and scoffs. “Christ, don’t lowball yerself, love. I’ll give you a hundred for it.”

Shaking his head, John laughs, “C’mon, Paul—”

“More?”

“What—no, I mean, you don’t have to.”

“I’m serious, I wanna buy it.”

John eyes him for a beat. When he looks back at his work, he imagines it in the wall of his music shop somewhere—good enough to be placed amongst the instruments and music Paul loves more than anything. A mother’s fridge, a muse’s quaint record shop…those were the galleries where his art belonged.

“A blow job and Starbucks coffee, and you can have it for free.”

Paul nudges his shoulder with a laugh. “Shut up an’ let me help you carry these out.”

When they reach John’s flat, Paul follows him inside and they find space among the mess of his room to store his work. The corner beside his desk has become a contemporary sculpture of its own with its steady accumulation of random projects that never made the cut as decorum for his gallery of a bedroom. Having taken notice of it, Paul studies the array of canvases and scraps of paper mounted to his walls as if he actually  _ were _ back in the gallery. Only this one seems more intimate—a gallery of John’s very psyche.

“Why didn’t you add any of this to your display tonight?” Paul asks. “There’s some great stuff here.”

John switches on a lamp, bathing the room in playful shadows and dull yellow, and shucks off his jacket. “It wouldn’t have made much of a difference. Stuff like Stu’s is always the hot seller.”

“I never understood puttin’ monetary value on somethin’ so personal anyroad.” He tilts his head, considering, “Then again, I know fuck all about art.”

“I don’t know. You seem to be one of the few who gets mine.”

His head turns slightly towards John, eyes downcast and black in the low light. 

While Paul continues his leisure amble about the room, John seats himself on the edge of his bed and watches him. With every step, the air of this unspoken attraction between stirs madly. The humidity of it sticks beneath his tongue. 

Just when he thinks himself about to choke from it, Paul blatantly asks, “Have you ever been with an older bloke before, John?” 

His finger idly strokes over one of his pages as he speaks and, so attached to every piece he creates, John can practically feel it on his own skin. With a scent of hope in his voice, he returns, “Is that an invitation?”

“Just a question…for now.”

“Well, I think there’s a first time for everything. An’ anyway all the ones my age wouldn’t know my arse  _ or _ theirs from a hole in the ground.”

Slowly, he approaches him at the bedside. Whether it be the dull light or John’s own film of desire, his demeanor seems to recede into something rousingly darker. 

“So you want a man, is that it?” Reaching out, he weaves a hand into John’s hair, back and forth with a fluidity so clean he refuses to believe for a second that the man is ignorant to art. “Someone with experience…who can give you what you want?”

He nods, eyes fluttered shut at both the words and the hand that massages them into his head. “I want you.”

“Fuck, you make it so hard to be professional, love,” he murmurs after a pregnant pause. “Lucky for you I was an amateur to begin with.”

Then the grip in his hair is solidifying as Paul leverages his head up for a kiss to which he surrenders himself blindly. The friction of his facial hair is instantly electric. Parting his lips, he slips his tongue between John’s as if to ground him from it. He sighs at the deft, velvet strokes. To finally feel the shape of the mouth he has spent all week perfecting with a pencil is the life-imitates-art moment John never anticipated. 

Paul’s knee dents the mattress as he compels John lower to the bed. Cupping Paul’s cheek, his fingers curl against the scruff of his beard and thrill at its scrape against his palm like a blood pact. In the corner of his mind, he thinks about his promise to give him what he wants. A man more rugged than any who has set foot in his room before, he is already keeping it.

With any element of surprise stolen from him the first day they met, John wastes no time in undressing Paul or himself. After tossing their shirts to the floor, he scoots up the mattress with the man crawling after him, hunger in his eyes. Eagerly, John runs his hands over the exposed skin. At the ticklish sensation of Paul kissing his neck, he chuckles softly and squirms against him, only to grind into the solid weight of his pelvis. 

The laugh bleeds into a moan. His half-hard cock craves the pressure. 

Paul drags his fingers down the rungs of John’s ribs with enough deliberation to count each one. His mouth similarly trails lower, and he mutters against his chest, “You really are a young thing, huh?” His breath puffs over a saliva-slickened nipple, emitting a sigh from John’s lips that sounds all too much like an agreement. “So smooth…barely any hair on you.”

Burying a hand in Paul’s ebony locks, he responds, “That makes one of us.”

The full beard might suggest forests of body hair, but it hardly dusts his chest and instead disperses itself amongst his legs and forearms. God, John needs to feel him inside of him already. 

Lips withdrawing from the other nipple with a wet sound, he reminds him, “You wanted a man, not a boy, right?”

He hums, simpering. “That’s right, daddy.”

The quirk of Paul’s lips falls somewhere between amused and aroused at his cheek. But the speed with which he strips John of his trousers suggests a heavier hand of the latter. Legs open like a gate for anything Paul wants, he rhythmically palms himself through his boxer-briefs. 

His shoulder blades shuffle beneath his skin as Paul lowers himself over John’s hips. Rather than mouthing his cock, however, his lips stake claim to the doughy flesh of his thighs. “Fuck,” John whispers and writhes at the scratch of his beard against their tender insides. 

“You’ve got killer legs, babe.” Teeth latched firmly, he sucks a bruise just below the crease of his hips. “So fuckin’ thick.”

He gnaws his lip at the attention, watches Paul ministering to him with genuine pleasure and consideration. He can only imagine the myriad of colors on his skin in the morning—dusky purples offset by bold crimson. The burn of his kisses already has his cock throbbing. 

With two slaps to the side of his thigh, he suddenly says, “Turn over for me.”

And when he does, no questions asked, Paul makes a model out of  _ him _ for once by positioning him on his hands and knees as he pleases. After ridding him of his underwear, he caresses the backs of John’s thighs like he aims to mark the entire circumference. He licks a bold stripe to the bottom curve of his left arsecheek. John shivers at his beard snagging like barbs against his skin. 

Entirely wanton, he widens his stance on the bed. His back arches at the presence of Paul’s tongue so near to his arse. “Paul, please….”

Deeply kneading his toned arse, he offers, “Want me to eat you out, love?”

He teases him with a slow sweep of his tongue over his entrance and John’s cock twitches in need.

“Yes, daddy,” and Christ, his cheeks blaze at the words pouring out of his mouth. It’s something that never felt right with blokes his own age, but Paul actually possesses the dominance and confidence for it.

Spreading his cheeks apart, he plants a feathery kiss to his hole. The weight of anticipation sends John’s head slack between his shoulders. He moans at the lithe flicks of Paul’s tongue, edging around the rim in steady swirls. At the first breach of Paul’s tongue, John cants backwards into him. He moans at the eager reception, hands smacking his cheeks only to pull them apart again.

Features of his face as twisted as the sheets in his fists, John whines into the pillow. As though weighed down by his hard cock, his hips begin to sink towards the mattress, until he can rub himself off against the rumpled sheets. Paul follows him down seamlessly, though, and every undulation of John’s hips compels his tongue deeper against his rim. But the relief from grinding his cock against the mattress seems to last only a matter of seconds before Paul’s hands are hauling his hips in the air again, lips a vacuum seal against his flesh. 

“Oh God—mm, fuck,” John cries out, the subtlest hint of teeth rendering him an incoherent mess. 

Two spindly fingers slip smoothly in place of his tongue and scissor just enough to keep him content when Paul orders again, “Turn back over, baby.” 

John has never heard such heft in his voice before, all mahogany and grit. Obeying every whim leaves him equally as delirious as the knee-quivering rim job. Before settling on his back again, he roots around in the drawer of his bedside table for everything they need. Paul prepares himself expeditiously, then hoists John’s legs over his broad shoulders. Their foreheads lean together, attuned to one another by desirous gazes, as Paul pushes in with one measured, continuous thrust. 

He grits his teeth at the initial pain, determined not to show it. Whether or not he senses it, Paul sloppily kisses the side of his leg and eases him into the motion of his hips. When his tip grazes his prostate, John moans and kisses him messily. Doubled in half, the angle itself vouches for the experience he had craved in a man like him. 

His ears fill with Paul’s heated breath and the creak of his cheap bed as their momentum builds. Ever since that first private modeling session in the studio, their momentum has been building. Now, John feels himself ready to topple over like a nudged domino.

“Harder…fuck me,” he rasps against Paul’s shining lips.

Groaning heavily, he bottoms out inside of him—every thrust deeper and faster. The slap of their flesh adds to the fullness in his ears and he arches his back as if to distend some of it. It only grinds his cock harder into Paul’s slick stomach. Festering and festering, the solid heat in his groin liquefies all at once as he keens and cums between their bodies. As soon as he reaches his climax, Paul surrenders to his own. 

“John, hmmnn  _ shit—” _ He moans into the crook of his neck and shoulder, shuddering in his embrace.

His hips stutter arrhythmically while he prolongs the pleasure like a spinning top losing steam. As soon as it is over, John’s legs flop numbly to the bed. Hushed, staccato moans continue to tumble from his lips as he gradually comes down. 

The aureate afterglow drips over their skin like candle wax. Breathing into Paul’s thick, sweaty hair, John idly doodles along the canvas of his back, until he quietly murmurs, “Are you drawin’ a dick on my back?”

“Sorry,” he chuckles shyly and flattens his palm. “It’s second nature.”

“You don’t have to stop,” he reassures with a kiss to his shoulder. “Feels good…weirdly enough.”

Nail tenderly grazing along his skin again, John asks, “Are you gonna come back to class on Monday?”

Paul turns his head to look at him, eyes stunning and tranquil. “Mhm.”

“What about when this unit is over?”

“Well, you’ve got somethin’ of a mural to paint me in the shop,” he reminds him softly, appearing to sense the hesitance in John’s voice. “You still up for that?”

A relieved smile unfurls along his lips. “Definitely.”

Paul leans up for a deep, lingering kiss. Even with the urgency settled, John finds himself persistently drawn to him and the lips that trail down his neck to rest at his shoulder. And distantly, he realizes the invisible ink of his finger has been signing the autograph Paul had asked him for at the start of it all. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, and leave a comment if you enjoyed!


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